Addicted to the Sugar Quill High
by Lolli Locket
Summary: Harry has an incurable disease that his friends call his ‘hero complex’. Simply put, he’s drawn to broken things. Draco Malfoy is one of them. AU
1. and i think this way

Addicted to the Sugar Quill High

_The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain._

- Lord Byron

* * *

It has something to do with being abandoned as a child.

I mean, my parents died. They _left_. It probably isn't abandonment in the strictest sense – I'm pretty sure they didn't plan the car crash – but the end result is the same.

Harry Potter, orphan.

Hermione would say I'm disrespecting their memories but I'm not. I can barely remember them. The biggest impression their death has left me is this: longing mixed with greater resentment for forcing me to live the kind of life I do.

It's not their fault.

At the same time, it is.

Hermione would say I'm ungrateful.

I say I'm simply bitter.

But I'm never one to analyze my own psyche. It twists things up and makes you self-absorbed. I've a vague notion of who I am, but beyond that I don't want to know. The one thing I'm certain of myself is my unhealthy interest with broken things. It can be a person, an object, an event in history, it doesn't matter.

My friends roll their eyes at this side of me which they call my 'hero complex.' It's actually not as sweet as that. It's merely like attracting like.

And it's a dangerous hobby.

Because you're thinking that something that is already broken can't possibly break even more.

You are very wrong.

-

It makes me wonder about my mum, Lily.

I live in a fairly small town where everyone knows everyone else. It's the sort of place where 'minding your own business' has never been a popular concept. I have plenty of people tell me that my mum and dad were the nicest people, helpful, sincere, in love, etc.

But I also have Aunt Petunia to compare her to.

My aunt isn't a complicated woman. She lives for recognition and therefore thinks little of herself. Outwardly, though, Aunt Petunia seems like your typical, gossipy housewife. Put in the fact that she's hungry for any sort of news where she can boost her own self-esteem, such as Mrs. Next-Door-Across having a drug addicted son or Mrs. Next-Door-To-The-Right's husband has been fired for embezzlement, and it takes a darker tone.

And she absolutely loathes me.

I am the only son of the sister who you only read about in books: Lily was pretty, smart, and wonderful. She is the source of Aunt Petunia's insecurities, having grown up in my mum's shadow. And from the stories I've heard of their childhood, mum absolutely adored Aunt Petunia and tried to include her in everything, even her romance with my dad (mum practically forced them to date despite dad's obvious adoration of her and her growing feelings for him; a rather demoralizing affair, I'm told). How can Aunt Petunia actively hate someone who loved her so? It adds an interesting dimension to their fractured relationship.

In the end, Aunt Petunia has finally found the way to express her repressed bitterness towards her sister in the form of the son she has left behind.

Aunt Petunia likes to think that she's better off having never taken care of me (and I say that last part in the loosest sense possible). The truth of the matter, one that _we _both know, is that she needs me to make her feel better about hating her sister. After all, she isn't spitting directly on my mum's grave, just the person tending it.

Bah, I'm awful at analogies.

But in a strange way, I'm grateful to my Aunt.

She's the reason why I don't see with rose-colored glasses. Or, no, I actually do. Only those glasses have cracks in them so I won't be fooled by the world.

It is a bit sad, though, for an eleven year old to think that.

Even sadder, when that eleven year old has turned out like this.

-

I once slept with my best friend, Ron.

We didn't share a meaningful night together, nor was/am I in love with him. It didn't shatter my world further or fix it in any way. It was merely sex in the purest form, helped along by a few bottles of beer. It didn't even have the decency to give me that 'holy fuck I'm attracted to blokes' revelation that every man experiences at least once in his life (and mostly ignores) because I don't discriminate when it comes to the people I sleep with. When you spend as much time observing people as I do, one of the first things you notice is your own reaction to them, whether sexually or not.

To Ron, however, it was a life-altering event.

He didn't fall in love with me or realize that he already was.

Instead, he saw Hermione in the way we've all known about since bloody forever.

He pursued Hermione with a single-mindedness that he only showed during footy. Hermione took offence at first but eventually let herself be caught.

Ron and I have never spoken about that night (after an awkward conversation that consisted of obscene hand gestures and manly pats on the shoulder) and I'm pretty sure Ron has blocked it from his memory.

I cherish that moment because I actually lost my virginity with no strings attached. I know a few people who would kill to have had that chance.

And I take full credit for their relationship, by the way.

-

I mentioned that I rarely scrutinize myself.

I lied.

Because I _do_ like to compare my life with others, obtaining a perverse sense of gratification in the differences I find. It's strange how my pitiable existence can be preferable to, say, the life of Draco Malfoy.

I have no illusions, you see, while Malfoy seems to have built his reality out of them.

He's as broken as I, and only I see it. I'm not even sure if he's aware of it.

That is why I find him so fascinating.

-

TBC


	2. come and be unholy

Addicted to the Sugar Quill High

_Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus._

- Wallace Stegner

* * *

Snape's class is good for something other than having your confidence flogged to death. I sit at the very back, chin propped on my fist, and let my mind wander. I hate to admit it but Snape's low, calm voice is a soothing soundtrack whenever I indulge my thoughts (which is often, by the way).

Malfoy's head bobs to my right, a few seats in front, and I keep my gaze on him. Typical that he's engrossed in whatever Snape is teaching, though I'm not sure whether it's because he's genuinely interested in the subject or due to his general seriousness with his studies. Whatever it is, the intent look on his face is rather attractive.

We used to be friends, Malfoy and me. It was before I met Ron, years before, when Malfoy and I were about seven.

We were in the same class, then, and I was in a phase where bright colors fascinated me. It had something to do with the way I was brought up, kept in a dark cupboard, given dark clothes, living in a colorless environment such as Number 4 Privet Drive. Malfoy sat on the seat next to mine and the light from the window haloed his golden head. For a seven year old like me, it was like a religious epiphany. For a seven year old like Malfoy, it was like gaining a groupie.

Even as a little boy, he was bossy. He enjoyed ordering me around and whenever we played games, Malfoy usually ended up being the captain or the prince or Luke Skywalker. In retrospect, it shouldn't have been fun, but it _was._ I didn't say much but that hardly mattered. Malfoy talked enough for both of us.

He brought me to his home a few times, one of the largest in town, and we spent hours in the pool, or playing video games, or racing in his bedroom. It was always when his parents were away.

Ron's arrival complicated our friendship. Malfoy is undeniably selfish and it goes back to his childhood. It doesn't even matter if the object in question is an actual person. If Malfoy deems it his, then it is.

I liked Ron the first time I met him, with his loud, colorful personality. He was effusive, unafraid to look like an idiot, and it was this that clashed (still clashes) with Malfoy's growing haughtiness. I honestly felt like a bone fought over by two temperamental dogs. In the end, Malfoy grew tired when I chose Ron's side one too many times and ended our friendship. I didn't, by the way, because I rarely chose to take sides; and I was furious that he could decide something just like that. It rubbed me the wrong way, made me think if we ever were friends or did he simply see someone he could command like a servant. I didn't fight the sudden separation. Instead, I fought _him_.

Ask anyone; our rivalry is legendary.

But to be perfectly honest, while Malfoy and I have the verbal and sometimes physical battles, like we're in some bleeding war, it's Ron who harbors actual ill feelings for him. It's got to do with their fathers and some nasty business a few years back, which I don't know the complete story of. Needless to say, they try to draw blood between them, while my hostility mostly feels like a formality at this point.

There is a lot to dislike about Malfoy and yet like the proverbial fly, I am drawn to the git and his tricky web.

Everything seems to conspire to push both of us together, even our abandoned friendship. It's because of those memories, seen through the jaded eyes of my sixteen year old self, that I am able to truly appreciate how horrifyingly similar my life is to Malfoy's. The details differ but the reality is equally depressing.

Fuck, I have abysmal thoughts.

Of course, that is when a cloying voice says, "Mr. Potter, would you care to enlighten us as to why you find the back of Mr. Malfoy's head so fascinating?"

It's actually a bit juvenile, this bit of humiliation, but I feel it keenly anyway. I catch the downward sweep of Ron's rolling eyes. Ah well, in for a penny… "I was struck by how enormous Malfoy's head is. Sir," I add as an afterthought, deliberately keeping my tone flippant. That'll get Snape's knickers in a twist; it always does. Malfoy's smirk falters and Hermione, sitting to my right, shakes her head in disappointment.

Snape's nostrils flare and it's an interesting sight from where I'm seated. He's tall and intimidating; I'll grant him that, with his hook nose and perpetually sour attitude. Then again, if I am to spend the rest of my life educating ungrateful children who don't even care about most of the things I teach, well, I'll also probably look as if I swallowed some of Headmaster Dumbledore's lemon drops.

"Detention, Potter," Snape drawls in an awful tone and raps the top of my desk. "And get out of my class."

I don't bother to protest and I honestly don't want to. I quickly gather my things and after giving my friends a reassuring glance, I leave. If I slam the door a little too forcefully, it's only because of the mutual fondness that Snape and I share.

I spend the rest of my time in the library, sifting through a psychology textbook. I don't believe half the things the book says since experience has taught me otherwise, but it makes for fun reading anyway. It might not apply to me, but it's entertaining to lump people I know under certain categories.

For Malfoy: 'an overly narcissistic ponce who is secretly insecure about himself, caused by having a bastard father and an overbearing mother. This kind of person is often prone to histrionics.'

For Snape: 'uses hostility and indifference to mask the fact that he was not hugged enough as a child.'

For Tom: 'complete and utter piece of evil shite.'

Speaking of Tom…

A hand curls around my neck, squeezing tightly that I almost can't breathe. Damn, I forgot that even just thinking about Tom summons him, like a demon from the underworld. My own fingers scrabble against Tom's firm grip when breathing becomes difficult. Faintly, I hear a chuckle next to my ear. "Good to see you, Harry," Tom whispers before finally releasing me. I take a deep breath, glaring at the other boy as he moves to sit on the other side of the table. Tom smiles with a perfectly innocent expression that belies his true, ugly nature.

An ugly nature, yeah, but using a painfully handsome face. Irony at its finest, I think.

"Where've you been?" Tom asks, folding his hands on top of the table.

I close my book loudly, hoping to draw Mrs. Pince's attention and save me. "Avoiding you, though it's obviously not working."

He flashes me a grin full of teeth. "That's not very nice. Aren't I supposed to be your boyfriend?"

"You hit me," I point out, trying to hide my nervousness. Tom wouldn't even care if we're in school if he wants to hurt me. He's done so before. I had no problem with it then but I'm no longer in my masochistic stage. It ended up hurting too bloody much. Still, I obviously haven't developed any self-preservation instincts as my mouth runs away from me. "You cheated on me, threatened my friends, and tried to kill me on my _birthday_."

Tom stares at me, unimpressed. "What is your point?"

My temper has always been my downfall, even when dealing with a boy who is capable of attempted murder and gets away with it. I am not even kidding. This is my life.

"It means, Tom," I say with deliberate slowness while mentally gauging the distance from where I'm sitting to the exit, "that you're no longer my _fucking _boyfriend."

Abruptly, Tom stands up. His chair doesn't even fall over, damn it. Before I can even get up, he's already standing beside me. He hauls me up and against his body, hands painfully tight around my arms. Tom's face is impassive but his dark eyes burn with anger. I struggle in his grip, panicking a little when I feel the familiar rush of arousal at his proximity. I know I'm one fucked up bloke but even I sometimes wonder at myself, especially during times like this. I thought I've been cured of Tom Riddle.

The thing is, the one that I keep forgetting, that it is Tom who had an unhealthy obsession with me _first_ and that he absolutely hates losing his toys.

"Never presume that you can leave my side, Harry," Tom breathes against my lips and I remember all the times he'd bitten them bloody. "Don't forget who you belong to."

I shiver in honest-to-god fear. Being with Tom Riddle is a surefire path to destruction. It's tantalizing, especially for someone like me who's practically got one foot down that road already. But I don't want to go there. I actually want something _better_, the kind of thing that Ron and Hermione have. The one where you wake up and realize that it's fixed you a little bit more.

But god, Tom has tempting lips.

I accidentally nudge the book off with my hand and it lands with an explosive sound. Three seconds later Mrs. Pince is there, her expression infuriated, and Tom quickly releases me. He has his image to protect, after all. It's easier to manipulate people when they think you can do no wrong. Or, you know, people are just stupid.

"You should be more careful with my books, boy," Mrs. Pince sharply reprimands and I bend to pick it up, unable to muster enough remorse. I am thankful, though, and it makes me sound earnest enough when I say, "I'm sorry, it was an accident."

She snatches the book from my hand and I seize the opportunity, grab my bag, and flee the library.

I can still feel Tom's gaze even when I reach the other side of the school.

-

Hermione is not pleased with me. She's taken it as a personal challenge to get Ron and I to take school seriously. I think education is important, sure, but Hermione takes it to a whole new level. She's incredibly smart and is unforgiving of those who lax in their studies, particularly when she knows they can do better. When I say 'they', I mean 'me.' She's pretty much given up on Ron, despite the fact that she's gained greater control, er, _influence_, over the redhead ever since they got together. Ron isn't dim; he's merely too interested in sports to ever care for his studies more than is necessary.

I don't do too badly, though Hermione is under the impression that I can be brilliant. She doesn't know it's beyond my luck that I'm even going to school. If Uncle Vernon had his way, he wouldn't have allowed me out of the house. But he could do nothing with the eyes of the whole town on him.

No one really knows but abuse doesn't have to be in the form of bruises and broken bones. It is more effective when done subtly.

"Harry, you have to stop antagonizing Professor Snape," is the first thing she says to me when I spot them in the Great Hall. I immediately want to leave but I don't; I've just sat down.

"Wasn't my fault," I defend with a frown, removing a wrapped sandwich from my bag. Corned beef, yum. Not. "I didn't even do anything."

Hermione puts down her utensils to favor me with her complete attention. I ignore her. "You weren't paying attention in class, of course he'd be mad." Here she lowers her voice a bit, "And you know he has it in for you."

Understatement of the century, that.

Just because my mum didn't love him. Funny how often the parents' actions affect their children even when they're, you know, dead. Then again, mum definitely had the right idea not to fall in love with the git. I shudder to think of what my life would be like having Snape as a dad. Or inheriting his nose.

Ron, who's sitting to Hermione's left, snorts. "Bloody understatement of the century, Hermione." I love this boy. "Besides, Snape's class is dull as hell."

Hermione stiffens, clearly looking insulted. "Dull, is it? If you would only pay _attention _then you wouldn't find it so useless. Someday, the things you learn will help you in –"

I tune her out and I know it's rude, but I've honestly heard this lecture a dozen times before. I love my friends more than anything – they help keep me as sane as I am now – but in truth, they know little about me. Oh, they're aware that my relatives hate me but I've always kept the details from them and they never ask. Who wants to know what sort of mental, and maybe a bit of physical, torture goes on behind someone's door anyway? Most people would just turn their heads the other way. I don't begrudge my friends this. I don't want them to know.

But at the same time, I have to pretend around them, that I'm not too fucked by what is happening to me. I do that exceptionally well, which is why, I suppose, Ron and Hermione aren't more concerned. Besides, it's nice to play the normal boy once in a while. People like the Harry Potter who's a little rebellious, and smart-mouthed, and unpredictable. I'm not too sure about the Harry Potter who's depressed, masochistic, and dismal, though. He's never fun to be around.

The only slip up I've had is with To – um, You-Know-Who. No use thinking the name if it'll only make him appear. It's fucking stupid, I know, but I sure as hell won't take that chance.

It figures that I'd be attracted to the evil, sadistic as fuck type.

Hermione finally cottons on that I'm not listening. Her face turns red and she huffs. "_Fine_, don't care. It's not my fault if you fail Snape's class and you won't get your A-levels and – "

"Hermione," I cut in with a little smile. "Thanks, but I'll be fine. Look, I'll even make more of an effort to write that essay he assigned. All right?"

She relaxes a little bit and then frowns. "Wait, how did you know he gave us an essay? He kicked you out."

Ron, who is always useless during mealtimes, looks up in interest.

I merely shrug, trying my best not to smirk. "Didn't I already tell you I'm psychic?"

-

TBC


End file.
